


After the Storm

by FoxRafer



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-16
Updated: 2009-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 16:38:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxRafer/pseuds/FoxRafer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>From another exercise at <a href="http://panthermoon.com/generator.php"><b>The Almost Totally Random Writing Exercise Generator</b></a>: 350-500 words * A Building Doorman * after the storm. I continue my stellar creativity with fic titles here. :-) Another little experiment for me.</p>
    </blockquote>





	After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> From another exercise at [**The Almost Totally Random Writing Exercise Generator**](http://panthermoon.com/generator.php): 350-500 words * A Building Doorman * after the storm. I continue my stellar creativity with fic titles here. :-) Another little experiment for me.

He's always surprised when I open the door for him, never expects it, always appreciates it, as if it's a courtesy I'm not paid to provide. The honest "thank you" and the warmth of his smile are refreshing after innumerable grunts and the privileged stare that makes me invisible, the unseen force that magically moves the barrier to their entry or exit.

14D, Mr. Billy Boyd, a cellist in the local philharmonic. Several times I've listened to him practice during my breaks, snuck into the empty apartment next to his and listened to the rich melodic tones. Once I had a chance to watch him perform, a free concert in the park. He was barely visible in his row, his small stature nearly hidden from the audience. But I kept my eyes on his hands and the sure movement of his bow, imagined the look of concentration and pleasure that must grace his face as he plays.

I've never been attracted to a resident before. It's nice if a little disconcerting.

 

It's been pouring for hours, the gutters long since turned into small raging streams, even the flattest sidewalks succumbing to puddles. Mr. Ives' Chihuahua broke his lead and in the fifteen minutes it took to recover it I feel as if I've gained twenty pounds from the waterlogged uniform that's now plastered to my bones. With barely a nod of thanks, the little runt and his dog are in a cab and I'm confident I'll have a whale of a cold in a few days.

The door opens as I approach, an unexpected civility, and I look into bright green eyes and a concerned frown. He fusses for a bit, ignoring my assurances that I'll be fine, curses his neighbor then insists I call for my break. He's surprisingly persistent and strong-willed, ushering me into the elevator, refusing to take no for an answer when he shoves me out on his floor, bypassing the management office.

I've never been in his apartment before. It's nice but rather unnerving.

 

A quick spin in the dryer won't fully dry my clothes but it'll go a long way toward making them more comfortable until my shift ends. For some reason he has a large robe that would swim on his frame but fits me perfectly. In no time I'm settled on his sofa as he makes a pot of tea, talking to me from the kitchen as if we were old friends.

And it feels like we are, the conversation easy, my nerves diminishing with every passing minute. He sits and we drink and I find myself sharing dreams I'd never thought to share, promising to show him some of my photographs, even a few of my poems. His voice grows soft but his movements more animated as he talks of his music, the passion he feels when he plays.

I've never wanted to kiss a resident before. It's nice but I hesitate, worry what will happen after the storm.


End file.
